


And Love Itself Have Rest

by hedda62



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The requisite Hathaway-after-"Life Born of Fire" tale.  Massive spoilers for that episode.</p><p>Despite the gen tag, notice of men kissing and so forth; also warnings for thoughts of suicide as well as poetry and religious imagery and serious angst.  Oh dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Love Itself Have Rest

**Author's Note:**

> For Charlie: _requiescat in pace_.

A week after Zoe died, they got another case: the murder of a Cowley electrician. At first, the motive seemed straightforward jealousy, and then things got interesting. Hathaway threw himself into the puzzle with more than typical zeal, to the point that Lewis commented on his single-mindedness, and then went suddenly quiet.

The trouble with warding off grief and remorse by means of industry was that he solved the case all too soon, through perseverance and logic and damnable luck: a thinking machine burrowing into the soft heart of malfeasance like a monstrous drill. Lewis bought him a pint and clapped him on the shoulder and sent him home, then disappeared off to Manchester for a well-earned if brief holiday.

Hathaway was about to stop off at his generally-best-avoided local to add a second pint to the first, when his mobile rang. _Brring, brring._ For a few moments the week before, he'd considered finding a "Firebird Suite" ringtone for the new phone, to close himself back into that smoky bedroom and Zoe's arms every single blasted time it went off, but Lewis had a better ear than he let on and would be shocked and concerned, and besides it was a neurotic thing to do and he'd be tired of himself in days. More than he already was. _Brring, brring._

"Hathaway," he answered impatiently, not looking at the display.

"James," said the voice on the other end. "It's Jonjo."

"Yeah. Hello," he managed after a two-second pause that Jonjo was fully aware of the reasons for: a sardonic chuckle at the other end of the line.

"Glad to hear from me? Probably not. I have something for you. Give me a time; I'll bring it by."

Hathaway hesitated, then said, "I'm on my way home now. Five minutes."

"I'll be there in ten."

"Let me tell you where--"

"I know where you live," and the call went dead.

He stood frozen on the pavement for twenty seconds, then put the mobile back in his pocket and strode forward. The absolute last thing he should do was to go home. He knew that; he could recognize a potential threat when he heard it. Jonjo was a good person; he worked off his bitter feelings about the world by making films; he was not a likely murderer. But anyone could be pushed to the limit, and even Jonjo might take it on himself to complete Zoe's work; not for her sake, but for Will's.

Still: more than a week later. Though if Jonjo were to kill anyone, it wouldn't be in hot blood.

 _I have something for you._ Pistol shot to the head, knife in the throat? Retribution and the settling of scores. No more than he deserved.

Or -- this was Jonjo, after all -- it might be the finished film. But no: not _for_ him. Aimed at him, certainly. Video recorder to the head: blood and brain pulp and stupid, _stupid_ platitudes about the bells of Oxford.

And Will, digitally alive forever, speaking truth. Knife to the heart.

Hathaway kept walking; before he knew it he was home.

*

When he opened the door, Jonjo greeted him with a tight, level stare, and Hathaway stepped back as though repelled and let him inside.

"Tea?" he said as they passed the kitchen, expecting and getting a scowl in return. "Bitter herbs? Waters of Lethe? Or Kokytos might be more appropriate, but I'm fresh out."

"Shut up, James," Jonjo said with admirable patience. "And gin, if you've got it."

"I do." Pouring the drink gave him a moment to steady his shaking hands, so he was able to give Jonjo the glass without spilling on either of them. "So," he said, sitting down, and then couldn't add anything.

"You all right?" Jonjo said. Hathaway nodded, then shrugged. "I heard what Zoe tried to do to you," Jonjo went on.

There was no use asking how he'd found out. "I thought maybe you were here to finish the job," Hathaway said.

Jonjo barked a laugh. "I don't care enough about you to kill you. You let me in anyway," he added, questioning.

"Yeah."

"Some kind of religious thing? Martyrdom, sacrifice?"

"No." And that was going to be all, before he added, "More like what Zoe did. Self-immolation." Caressing the syllables.

"I thought that meant being a martyr," Jonjo said.

"No. It's just dying."

"I think Zoe had a reason. A cause, even." He watched Hathaway's mouth tighten, and added, "I'm not saying it was a good cause."

Hathaway gave him a brief nod and said, "Police training knocks martyrdom out of you. Unless it's in a _very_ good cause." He imagined throwing himself in front of a bullet meant for Lewis; it was satisfying. "Your fingerprints are on the glass," he added.

"So they are," said Jonjo. He studied the glass for a moment, probably examining the patterns of light on the liquid and wondering how they'd come out on video, and then put it down and reached into the bag at his feet.

Hathaway tensed involuntarily; Jonjo glanced up. "You _are_ a bloody policeman," he said, and pulled out an envelope. "I've been helping Sadie go through Will's things. We thought you should have these." Instead of handing the envelope over, he drew objects from it one at a time, prolonging the suspense.

Photos, first: Hathaway and Will at fourteen, arms around each other, smirking at the camera; at fifteen, accidentally together in a shot at some prize-giving, ignoring one another; Hathaway alone, as an adult, gazing down soulfully at his guitar during a performance, a picture he'd had no idea Will had possessed. Then a newspaper clipping: he and Lewis at the conclusion of the Turnbull case.

"And this," said Jonjo in a level tone, handing him a folded sheet of paper.

Staff paper for music, he could see before he unfolded it, and then... it had been fifteen years, but he knew instantly what he was looking at. A melody picked out in the treble clef in pencil, the beginnings of chord notations. Key of D. And then the whole thing scribbled out in black ink, and in his obnoxious adolescent scrawl, "For Will" written at the top.

He pressed his lips together hard, breathing through his nose as steadily as he could. It was no use, of course; Jonjo could read him like a... a book was too long and complicated. Like a posted notice, the sort of "No Trespassers" sign that was made to be ignored.

"There's a story behind that, as Charlie would say. Tell us, James. Bedtime story?" Hathaway said nothing, unable to trust his voice, and Jonjo went on. "You sacrificed your chance to say it was none of my business when you killed Will. Because you did kill him. Not by yourself, and not on purpose, but you did, and you know that. So tell me."

"There isn't much to tell," he said, putting off the inevitable by a few seconds, and then the words escaped his mouth, burning as they fled. "It was going to be a setting of a poem by Byron. Wholly not original, both the source and the style overused, but I was fourteen; it was all new to me, exciting, and I thought I understood what the words meant. I thought I understood everything. 'So we'll go no more a roving.' Well, I suppose it was true enough," he bit off.

"And you crossed it out, and handed it to him as a gift."

"Yes. As you just did to me. Thank you. If I could have managed to hate myself more than I do already, that would have put me over the top."

"Yeah, well; you were fourteen. We all do a few horrible things at that age." It was forgiveness, of a sort; the rest, Jonjo would never forgive him for. "I'm not much for poetry, but... 'Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon.' That one?"

"That one," Hathaway agreed. "Byron was my age when he wrote it. It's about getting old. Just right for my middle-aged heart."

"I'm sorry I said that."

"Don't be. You didn't actually put me in the film, did you?"

"'Course I did. You can catch yourself at Cannes next year."

Hathaway couldn't help cracking a smile. "I'm sure you'd deserve it. God. I really haven't changed, have I? Insufferable, condescending ass. The fucking bells of Oxford."

"From an artistic standpoint, it was brilliant." Jonjo paused, turning the glass in his hand. "So who do you love, James?"

Hathaway put his head back, looking up at the ceiling as he'd looked at the sky when confronted by the camera.

"No one," he said, letting his chin fall back to level. "No one at all." He saw Lewis looking down at him while he lay in the hospital bed, and pushed the image away. "I don't deserve to love anyone."

"That's what Will thought of himself," Jonjo said, his tone still stone-solid, the anger gushing out from a million springs. _He struck the rock in the wilderness, and gave them to drink, as out of the great deep._ "No one should think that. If I have anything to say about it, no one will ever think that again. Even you, James."

Hathaway stared at Jonjo for a long moment, unable to read anything beyond the bare words, and then abruptly pushed himself to his feet. "I need a drink," he said.

He was in the kitchen pouring whisky, generously, when he heard the footsteps behind him. Whirling, he met Jonjo's dark eyes, and then the hands came up to seize his shoulders, and he was pushed to the wall.

And kissed, a strong hand behind his neck pulling his mouth close. He was too startled to kiss back for a moment, and then he let his lips move against Jonjo's, a promise and an awakening, and pulled away.

"Scared?" whispered Jonjo.

Hathaway found his breath. "Yeah," he said. "The last person I kissed was Zoe."

Jonjo lifted an eyebrow; no, he hadn't somehow, miraculously, known that. "Zoe. Really?"

"Zoe. Feardorcha. Will. I don't know." It all came out on one breath, and then he dove back onto Jonjo's mouth.

Jonjo held his face between his hands, thumbs caressing his jaw line, then stroked one hand down the side of his neck and splayed it across his chest. His tongue was busy doing amazing things to Hathaway's sense of equilibrium, and Hathaway was trying to do them back, ineptly but with firm purpose. Other parts of him were getting firm as well, and he was gratified when Jonjo's hand slid down his body and pressed itself to the front of his trousers. Hathaway's heart, if it was possible, beat faster; he thrust helplessly against the hand, and then some ancient admonition about selfishness declaimed itself in his rapidly-dissolving brain, and he gave his own hands permission to explore Jonjo's body, running over the sturdy muscle, imagining the skin under the tight shirt, ending their journey at the crotch.

Where, in contrast to his own straining need, he felt... nothing. Or not nothing, certainly male genitalia under the fabric, but no hardness, not the least sign of arousal.

He pulled back and stared at Jonjo; Jonjo's hands dropped away, and then one lifted again to touch his cheek.

"You're not really my type, love," he said with a mocking smile. "Sorry." He gave Hathaway's chin a tiny, playful slap, and then backed away. "I need to be going," he went on, serious again, pulling his mobile out of his pocket to check the time. "Bells of Oxford due to ring any minute. Enjoy your date."

Hathaway could only stand still, breathing heavily, as Jonjo left him; he heard the door shut a moment later. Then he slid down the wall to the floor, face in his hands. _From an artistic standpoint,_ he thought at the departed Jonjo, _yeah. Fucking brilliant. Poetic, even. You bastard. Avenging angel. Oh, God._

In another minute he found himself ridiculous and got up off the floor, taking the glass of whisky with him, wandering about the flat aimlessly but for avoiding mirrors, and drinking. When he finished the first glass, which he was already thinking of as the first glass, he headed back to the kitchen for more, but once the bottle was in his hand getting plastered was suddenly not appealing. Neither, to his surprise, was the notion of killing himself, at least by any method less dramatic than Zoe's, and he was just civic-minded enough not to set his flat on fire. It occurred to him, a few seconds after dismissing the idea, that he had just set himself up for a competition.

"Bring it on," he whispered, and then, inhibitions punctured, shouted, "Bring it on!" to the ceiling, shaking his fist, at Zoe, at God, he didn't know. He opened a window and shouted into the night air. As if in response, the Magdalen Tower bells started ringing the hour, followed like an echo by all the rest of them. He clung to the windowsill, dizzy.

"But, oh Lord, not yet," he said, and then started to laugh at himself. Which meant that out-dramatizing Zoe was probably beyond him. He could jump off the Tower, but that was trite and unoriginal, and besides he didn't feel like leaving the flat. He could swallow a rare poison, but he was fresh out of rare poisons along with the waters of mythological Greek rivers. He could slit his wrists enough to draw cryptic messages on the walls in blood, and then finish himself; the decoding would give Lewis something to do besides mourn. Though Innocent would never let Lewis head up the investigation.

It was something, that he was sure Lewis would mourn for him.

And Lewis was bloody good at mourning. An expert on the case. Everyone deserved that at the finish. _Even you, James._

The bells finished ringing. End of the first round.

He really needed a cigarette.

 _The flames rolled on; he would not go without his father's word,_ he recited to himself as he lit up. Stupid of him to have a habit that reflected his nightmares. He should take up drinking himself to death instead. Drowning in single malt would be a lovely way to go. And bloody expensive, on a sergeant's salary. Not that he had anyone to leave his money to.

Lewis, maybe. Buy you a drink, guv'nor. That was about all he was worth.

He ought to leave his little all to Sadie McEwan. Labeled "I'm sorry." Not "forgive me," because he didn't think she should. Though she would anyway. On behalf of her son, who hadn't, but who had chosen with a keen perfection what to leave behind for James Hathaway.

_Not peace but a sword. Damn you, Will. You weren't the fucking boy on the burning deck, waiting on your father's release. That's not what you were. You had the power to send out avenging angels; you preached love to all the world through your disciples. And you let me deny you... three times, was it? At least three; let's not be pedantic._

_You never lost your way. But it's my Calvary._

_Forgive them, for they know not what they do. Ha bloody ha and amen. I miss you so fucking much._

The cigarette was burning his fingers. He stabbed it out in the nearest ashtray, in instinctive, self-protective avoidance of pain. Perhaps he should have let it scar him, but then there'd be the conversation: _Fell asleep with a cigarette between my fingers, sir. God, man, be more careful. You could have burned the bloody flat down._ And then the appalled, speculative silence.

There were better things he could do with his time. Far, far better things.

For a start, he could make something of Will's gift. Or rather, his own hateful gift, saved by hope and returned to him through love: Sadie's and Jonjo's for Will, not for him, but it was enough. It was probably more than... no, it was exactly what he deserved.

 _So we'll go no more a roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving and the moon be still as bright._ He could do something with that. After all, he was nearly thirty; surely he understood the words better now.

He'd write the song over again when he was fifty, just in case.

Grabbing his guitar, he sat down and set it next to him, then picked up the paper again. It was still possible to detect the notes under the bold black scribbles. He hummed the first two measures, then took up the guitar and played the whole melody through as he'd written it at the age of fourteen.

It wasn't awful. There were intervals he'd change; he could do more with the fingering and the chords were all wrong, but it was a beginning.

He fetched himself a tonic water from the fridge and settled down to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Kokytos is the river of lamentation; Lethe of forgetting.
> 
> The Byron poem in full is [here](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173101).
> 
> The other quote (that isn't the Bible, I mean) is from [Casabianca](http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/hemans/works/hf-burning.html) by Felicia Hemans, which fellow American viewers may be surprised to learn was read (in part) by Jonjo in the funeral scene. Thank you, PBS (not). And real thanks to the Inspector Lewis LJ comm members who helped me figure out what was missing.


End file.
